


setting off (but not without my muse)

by brokentombstone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Resolution, basically a rewrite of the Starks farewell in season 8 with a happier ending, there is like 1 percent angst and then endless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone
Summary: This time her voice comes out quiet, barely a whisper with the rush of the sea lapping behind them.“Come home, Jon.”--Or;Sansa doesn't think much of Jon's sentence. She takes matters into her own hands. A softer ending than what we were given.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 144





	setting off (but not without my muse)

**Author's Note:**

> this just. sigh. what could've been in a less cruel world. i will never tire of these two.

Sansa feels like she has aged decades in the last several weeks. Her ache goes deep. It rattles her bones, brittle on the brink of snapping. Every muscle feels over wrought with stress and she has had a pounding in her head since Daenerys arrived in the North all those months ago. When she had looked at her reflection though it hadn’t betrayed that. It had only shown her mask, impeccable, unbreakable after all this time. Porcelain, Ivory,  _ Steel.  _

And she supposed, well she supposed that she was right. Because she was the last Queen standing. It should make her happy, she should be proud of what they accomplished in the end, despite the devastations and losses, but she can find no joy in it. When she told the others that the North would demand their independence she had seen the looks. Shock from her Uncle Edmure. Incredulity from Yara Greyjoy and the Martell man whose name escaped her. And pride from Arya. 

There had been no reaction on Bran’s face. He knew. Of course he had known. She had spoken the truth, that she thinks he will be a good King. But it worries her, him being down here on his own, vulnerable, a leftover maternal instinct from their youth. (It worries her for more practical reasons as well. A Stark in the North. Another to rule the Six Kingdoms. She can only hope that particular problem doesn’t rear its horns until long after she is gone, returned to the earth). 

If she lets herself think about it too much she can admit it, all she wants now is to go home, to go home and rebuild the North. Live in peace and stretch out the rest of her days as long as she can. She doesn’t know if it will ever feel real that she made it to this point. 

Robert Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, all the Tyrells, Littlefinger, Ramsay Bolton, Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and Daenerys Targaryen. All dead, no longer alive to torment her. She wishes they were around just for her to say:  _ look at me. I made it.  _ A stupid prideful thought, but true all the same. 

(Part of her worries about Tyrion Lannister, specifically his continued ability to draw air. But she has faith in Brienne to keep him in check and in Bran to keep him from causing problems. If they don’t… well Sansa won’t mind coming South one last time).

Sansa has the thought and the wind rustles her hair. She realizes that all that stops her from retreating to Winterfell indefinitely is one final piece. Her last loose end, her thread that frays no matter how many times she mends it, that which sets her jaw on edge and sends her heart into a frenzy. The one that she hasn’t been able to nail down. Jon.

She stands on the docks, barely aware of Arya and Bran beside her. And she allows herself to hope, to hope that this time it is different. That they unravel that stubborn knot of yarn instead of making more of a mess.

* * *

Jon sees them all at once. As if they step out of a story, centuries old. It’s a bit ridiculous. But he thinks he hasn’t seen them quite like that, the way they function as a unit. He supposes that they were all together at the weirwood tree. But much has changed since then and Jon can feel the tension radiating even from the other side of the pier. 

It is his first time seeing Bran since he has been made King of the Six Kingdoms. Jon squints. He is still just his baby brother.  _ Cousin.  _ Jon corrects himself mentally but shakes his head slightly. None of that matters. Not now. They are family, that they always will be and it will be what Jon holds tight to his chest when he goes to the wall, and then beyond. Jon wonders if maybe he will just go on forever, never turning around. It’s far from what he wants, but it is what he needs, maybe. ( _ What he deserves _ , a cruel voice whispers to him). To get away, away from bloodlines and betrayal. Away from a realm that wishes for his head, for kinslaying. For his lies to the Dragon Queen. 

(He can still feel her lifeless body limp in his arms. And while he hadn’t bore her any love, not truly, the weight of that action lies heavy on his shoulders. He thinks it always will. His final lie to placate her.  _ You will always be my Queen.  _ It felt like a joke now, a hollow echo of what Daenerys wanted that Jon couldn’t give her. She’d never been  _ his  _ Queen. No… )

His eyes go to Arya next and he feels them welling up with tears. She looks so grown. And he has heard the whispers that she has a boat, where she will go he doesn’t know yet. But he understands the longing to get away. He knows she will come back one day, just like she did before. She’s young, maybe the most youthful of them all now, and he knows she will settle in Westeros only when she is ready, not a day before. He sniffs and turns his head slightly. 

He knew it was coming and yet the sight catches him off balance. It’s Sansa, of course it is. When he’d heard that she had rallied them, the armies of the North and the Riverlands to boot. Well Jon could hardly believe his ears. And yet. He should have known. She’d never said the words, but the night Jon swore to protect her, she’d made the same silent vow. (Something in the set of her mouth when she’d said  _ no one can protect me, no one can protect anyone.  _ But I’ll protect you, she seemed to say). Stronger than his own, and she had fulfilled it time and time again. Succeeded where Jon had failed, she had only done what she had done to protect him, sensing the danger he was in without him having to voice his failures. He didn’t deserve her. 

And the sight of her here. Well it makes him want to hang his head in shame. But Sansa, as she always has been, is the image of proper manners, she stands straight as a rod, hands clasped behind her back. And she is breathtaking, no point in denying it here at the end. Despite what they have all endured, there is not a hair out of place, maybe her cheeks a bit hollow and some circles under her eyes. But the facade is impenetrable. It makes Jon ache, to think of what she is concealing inside that mind of hers. He wishes he would have the opportunity to find out. 

He breaks away from Sansa’s unwavering stare and makes the walk over to the others. Out of sheer desperation to see her he almost goes to Sansa first, but he falters, his steps almost become a trip in front of Bran and he forces himself to one knee in front of him. 

Bran is easy, the safest of the three, Jon thinks. But before he can speak out a reverent ‘Your Grace’, Bran is chastising him.

“There’s no need for that Jon. Not here, not anymore,” Bran says.

His voice is quiet, restrained. And Jon doesn’t quite understand the undercurrent of anger there until he thinks about it a bit. Of course his brother would see Jon’s deference and only think of his treatment of Daenerys. The way his knees buckled under her stare for fear of what would happen if he didn’t. Bran wouldn’t want that. He rushes to his feet, sheepish suddenly to be scolded by his younger brother. 

Jon stands there for a few seconds. He feels Arya and Sansa’s eyes on him but he does his best to block them out. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you Bran. I should have been in the godswood, Theon–”

His words die when he hears a sharp intake of breath from down the line. Sansa, of course Sansa. He doesn’t turn his head but Bran is already shaking his own at him. 

“You were exactly where you were supposed to be. As was Theon. We all have our purposes Jon.”

Bran’s voice is sagely in its wisdom but Jon doesn’t think he understands the words. Does Bran think what he did was justifiable? That killing the woman he bent the knee to, that he allowed everyone to think he was in love with, was some sort of mercy? 

Bran may be able to forgive that but Jon doubts his own self-loathing will ever allow for that kind of forgiveness. 

Jon lets out a long sigh, and Bran doesn’t break their eye contact. He holds him there and Jon says the only thing he can think of. 

“You’ll make a good King, a bit young maybe…” 

His half-hearted attempt at a joke falls flat, or so he thinks until Bran cracks out the smallest of smiles. A slight shake of the head.

“No younger than Robb.” Bran says and looks out to the water. His voice is too wistful for one so young.

Yet he sounds ancient, Jon thinks. Gods. Robb. It feels like another lifetime that he heard about his favourite brother going to war, naming himself King in the North. Another person all together, one who was ready to forsake his vows to do what was right. Jon has more experience with that now than he cares to admit. What would Robb think of them now? These four people who together make some semblance of a family. He hopes he would be proud of the others at least. 

Jon steps towards Arya, sensing that his conversation with Bran is done. 

To his surprise he sees tears in his sister’s eyes. And suddenly he has to fight back his own, damn goodbyes. She’s biting her lip and she can’t meet his eye. It’s at once better and worse than what he expected. Part of him expected her to just forego the whole event, too ashamed of him to see him off. 

He aims for levity, hope.

“You can come visit me at Castle Black.”

He smiles at her but a strange look crosses her face. He can’t decipher it, he notices her eyes glance towards Sansa though and he has to fight to keep his own eyes trained on her face. 

“Maybe…” Arya trails off.

It’s odd and he feels uncomfortable so he tries something different. 

“I’d heard you got a ship. Is that true?”

Arya actually perks up a bit at that. 

“I just need to get away for awhile. Find out what the maps don’t tell us. You know, explore.”

She says this with a brimming confidence that Jon thinks is masquerading some fears underneath.

“Yeah I know the feeling.” Jon grins and then on a whim, “Don’t forget your Needle.”

She nods once, giving him a grin, and then Arya’s eyes dart to Sansa again and damn her, Jon thinks, because his do too and he realizes that Sansa is watching them closely, too closely. He feels warm all over. 

“I’ll come back one day. I just need time.”

It’s a promise, Jon realizes, and it is more to Sansa than it is to him, he thinks. He had suspected as much but Jon thinks Sansa is placated at Arya’s easy words, the assurance that she won’t be alone here. Gods, if anyone deserves to not be alone, well it is Sansa. He is glad she will have Arya eventually. 

“Of course you will.”

Jon pulls her into a hug, gripping her tightly and patting her head into his chest. He lets a few tears leak out. It’s strange to not know when (or if) they will see each other again. When he lets her go he knows she was crying too. They stare at each other for a few seconds longer and he steps back, giving her a final nod. 

All at once the decision to leave Sansa for last is a mistake because the second he meets her eyes he thinks that he doesn’t ever want to leave this dock. It feels unbearable that after this he has to say farewell to her. Not temporarily, but indefinitely. Forever. It was the last thing he ever wanted and yet he is here on the brink of his exile and he doesn’t know what to say to her. He spent sleepless nights wishing he could just spit out the thoughts swirling in his mind but here the silence cloaks them both. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and they can barely hold each other’s eyes. He knows Sansa is about to burst into tears, barely restraining now, but it is still her who speaks first.

“Can you forgive me?”

There is no preamble to her words and he can hear the earnest edge to her voice. Jon wishes then that he had spoken first so she wouldn’t think her own words so necessary. But then a memory is unlocked. Cups of ale and soaring hearts at their luck of finding one another, their disbelief. For old times sake he sticks to the script

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon’s lips twitch, “The North is free thanks to you.”

Robb would be proud, Jon thinks. They all would. Without Sansa the rest of them were lost. It is a truth too tender to speak aloud, but Jon knows it in his heart. 

Sansa’s lips tremble and Jon can tell that his words haven’t eased her heart at all, her eyes look glassy and Jon can’t anticipate what it is that she says next. 

“But they lost their King.”

Her voice is in mourning. And it hits home. Too close. He had never wanted the title. But still if someone asked him when he was happiest? At the table in the hall of Winterfell. Sansa by his side. She needs to know she can do this without him, Jon looks her in the eye. 

“Ned Stark’s daughter will speak for them. She’s the best they could ask for.”

He’s sincere, he speaks from the heart. He separates her, unconsciously, from himself. Not his sister. Maybe he has always done it. But now it seems no harm can be done by the obviousness of his words. 

He watches as they hit her and she absorbs them. She looks pleased, for maybe half a second. But then she sets her lips into a firm line.

This time her voice comes out quiet, barely a whisper with the rush of the sea lapping behind them. 

“Come home, Jon.”

It’s a plea and it doesn’t bear repeating. Jon understands her desire in an instant. Her eyes are full of something. Hope? Desire? Dreams? Part of Jon longs to fulfill his promise this time. Sansa’s heroes and storybook endings had died with her youth and yet she stands in front of him now wishing for the impossible. He can’t bring himself to be angry at her for it. 

“Sansa,” he agonizes, “I can’t.”

Bran and Arya seem to fade away. They are the only ones there, daring the other to move. If anyone breathes the moment will shatter. And gods, Jon can admit it. He wants nothing more than to take her in his arms, to never let her go. He thinks she might even feel the same. But it is too late for all of that, even if it is allowed now, it can never be. 

That doesn’t stop Sansa. 

“You  _ can. _ ”

Sansa’s voice breaks and before Jon can object she is rushing ahead. 

“Grey Worm and all Daenerys’ people are gone, on that ship there!” Jon’s head reels on instinct at her words to a rapidly disappearing ship, “Nobody left in Westeros has any love for the Dragon Queen. They whisper your name in secret Jon, their hero, their liberator. They don’t want this anymore than the rest of us. Don’t do this, not for your honour or for any other stupid noble reason. Come home, and heal. With me.” Sansa is pleading by the end, openly and without any reservations. She took a step towards him on her final words and before Jon notices it she has taken his hands in her own. Squeezing them tightly. Her eyes implore him and Jon’s mind rushes to catch up. 

“You’re serious?” Jon croaks and swallows thickly. Her words,  _ with me,  _ are a mantra in his head.

Sansa nods at him, tears leaking out as tension seems to escape from her in buckets. 

“The guards are gone Jon,” Bran’s voice sounds far away but Jon looks from where he came. Nobody in sight except the four of them. 

The ship destined for Winterfell is at the end of the dock. Jon can’t breathe. He doesn’t let himself believe it. 

Bran looks a little too disinterested but Jon thinks he is listening very closely to the outcome of this conversation. Arya gives him a sharp nod, her eyes trying to communicate something along the lines of  _ don’t screw this up, idiot.  _

Jon looks back to Sansa. Their hands are still clasped. 

“Let’s go home.”

Jon says the words with an indescribable relief, as if every part of him has longed for them for years. Jon embraces Sansa with a ferocity that he didn’t know he had. She melts into him the same way she did when they first found each other and Jon feels her body shaking with sobs against him. He pulls her closer, his hands closing around her waist. And it feels like he’s already home when he’s in her arms like this. 

Sansa whispers into his ear. 

“The North lost their King but I nearly lost  _ you _ .”

It’s the kind of admission that makes Jon’s legs want to give out, so he clings to their embrace and dreams of the snow awaiting them in Winterfell. Jon and his eternal saviour Sansa. He still doesn’t deserve her, he doubts he ever will. But after this he will spend every day trying to.

* * *

Sansa moves like she is underwater. She had expected Jon to make every excuse, in the end she had barely had to fight for it though. She had given him the option and he had taken it without a second thought. She loved him even more for that. Maybe she should’ve known. She hadn’t known him to hesitate, not when it came to her. 

The hour had passed in a rush as they had their final preparations for the journey. They had both said goodbye once more to Arya and Bran. Arya had taken Bran back to the castle and Sansa knew she was setting off on her own adventures tomorrow. At least Sansa knew she could sleep easy with Arya’s plans to return one day, hopefully sooner rather than later.

And then they are setting off. The sails catch the wind and Sansa stands on the side of the ship, watching King’s Landing retreat behind them. It brings her a small fraction of peace. It feels like the start of something altogether different, something better. She can leave this place that has brought her so much pain in the past. 

She feels him first. He comes to stand just behind her. She is just about to say something when she feels him clasping her hand. To Sansa’s surprise, it  _ doesn’t  _ take her by surprise. It is all too welcome. Like coming home after a long time away, or crawling into bed after a tiring day. She eases into it without any time for adjustment. 

She had cried on the docks when Jon agreed to come home. She’d been ready for rejection, not letting herself fully believe that he would come with her. And then she had been so overjoyed that she told herself it would be enough. But surely this gesture, now, after the fact. It has to mean something. An admission of the truth that she knows for herself and longs to see in him. 

“Will you miss it?” Jon’s voice is light but Sansa can’t help it. She bristles. 

“Never.”

It’s the truth. King’s Landing has not been kind to her, not now and not in her past. She doesn’t envy Bran having to stay behind, but at least he doesn’t have the horrific memories to keep him tossing and turning at night. He has spared her that at the least. 

Jon lets go of her hand and places it on the small of her back. She doesn’t flinch but her heart beat picks up. He’s comforting her, even now. (She’d been honest in her apology, knowing all the things he could hold against her. That he  _ should  _ hold against her. But he doesn’t seem to. She thinks he is too gentle with her. A part of her misses the abrasion of their fights. The way they always gave as good as they got. Maybe because they knew it would never end in hate, only in love. Though the fights are in the past, she vows it to herself. That after it all they have moved beyond that. The tension has broken, cracking and creating a fissure that isn’t insurmountable but instead just far enough wide to reach across, if you only have a little faith). There’s a part of her that knows they have things to discuss now, that they can only move forward once they reconcile the past. But she wishes they could stay like this. King’s Landing is almost out of sight now and she feels herself relax into Jon’s arm, content. 

She closes her eyes, breathes in the sea air and then turns in his arms. It’s her turn to take his hand. His eyes widen but she doesn’t pause. She leads him below deck. 

“Come. Let’s talk.”

The words are simple but she doesn’t miss the way his brow furrows or the way his jaw clicks into place, almost bracing for whatever is to come. 

She leads him to the small but ample enough room she has taken and they walk to the far side where two chairs are set up. She only lets go of his hand to take her seat. He does the same and for a few seconds they can only study the other. Where to start, Sansa thinks.

“Tell me.” Sansa begins, “Only the truth. We have grown weary of lies I think.”

She watches Jon’s reaction. At first he seems to tense but quickly enough she watches as some relief floods him. She realizes that he wants this, that he wants to off load what has weighed him down. That which has aged him beyond his years. 

“I never answered you,” Jon starts, “The first time you asked it. But I didn’t love her. I never did. It was a ruse.”

It’s not where she expected him to start but she feels herself let out a sigh all the same. She had thought so, but hearing him admit it feels better than she expected considering the fact that she is dead by his hand, as if she needed further confirmation. Sansa supposes it is only selfish on her part, this deep desire for him to disavow her. She nods at him, encourages him to continue.

“I’m sorry Sansa, I–I can’t explain what it was like on Dragonstone. I was over my head as soon as I got there. I should’ve listened to you, if I’d never gone down there–”

Sansa cuts across him at that, “If you’d never gone down there we likely would’ve been run over by the legions of dead. Or if we survived that we would’ve been burnt alive once we refused to bend the knee.”

Jon looks grim and shakes his head. 

“Maybe you’re right. But I’m still sorry Sansa. When I came back, I should’ve told you the truth from the start but I was scared. She already hated you so much, she was threatened by your position, in the North and in my life. I thought I could protect you but…”

Sansa watches Jon fidget. She can’t find it in herself to be angry, not anymore. She knows Jon has messed things up, that there has been hurt on both sides. A part of her wants to rage at him for it. But the part that is winning now just wants to make sure he doesn’t have to go through any of this ever again. It is as if with Daenerys’ death all of Sansa’s fight died. She has had lifetimes of waging war and she only wants to bask in the glow of victory for as long as she can.. 

She reaches for Jon’s hand. 

“You did protect me. In the end. And I forgive you for the rest.”

She moves her thumb over his hand slowly and Jon looks up in a bit of disbelief. 

“Sansa, I—”

“It’s alright Jon. You don’t have to say anything,” Sansa gives him a small smile, she wants to heal this hurt in him.

But he shakes his head at her and ploughs on. 

“I need to say this. I knew that if I didn’t kill her, that she wouldn’t stop. That she would come for you, for Arya and Bran. And the rest of Westeros. But when I actually had to do it, it was only your face that kept me on my path. Thinking about her burning you… And then I was ready to die, Sansa. I thought I would die here. But they told me you had brought our armies with you, demanding my freedom. It was more than I deserve, more than I could dream of Sansa. Thank you, for my life,” Jon finishes his speech. 

Sansa is left speechless for several seconds and she finds herself blushing at the end of it. She can’t meet his eye when she speaks again. 

“All I could think about was sitting in the Red Keep and dreaming about Robb rushing in to save me. He never could. But I wanted to do that for you,” Sansa squeezes Jon’s hand and when she finally looks into his eyes she realizes he is crying. 

He seems unable to speak. 

“I couldn’t let another Stark die in King’s Landing, not after father.”

Sansa sees Jon’s expression shift and she scoots closer, places her hands on his knees and forces him to look at her. 

“He will  _ always  _ be your father Jon. Nothing that has happened will change that now.”

Jon swallows and he finally speaks.

“Thank you Sansa. For everything. For all of this.”

He gestures to their surroundings and she knows he means the chance to start again. She only hopes that he realizes it’s her second chance too. Without the ghosts of their past to haunt them, creeping into corners and peering over shoulders. 

Sansa considers him, and she decides there is nothing for it. They’ve come this far and she is done with concealments. She readies herself. 

“I love you Jon. Not the way a sister loves a brother. The way a woman loves a man. If you don’t feel the same I understand that. But I don’t want there to be anything left unsaid when we get back to Winterfell.”

Sansa doesn’t breathe once she finishes and she can hardly believe that she found it in herself to get all the words out. She isn’t meeting Jon’s eye and she is sure she is crimson red from her neck to her roots. She’s near enough that she can hear his breath, or lack of it. When she looks up Jon has shifted closer. 

And then slowly, carefully, agonizing with hesitancy, Jon takes her face in his hands. Sansa still isn’t breathing. He leans in. Jon presses their lips together and Sansa closes her eyes. The kiss is soft, it meanders. As if there is nothing else in the world that matters. Sansa supposes that now, there isn’t. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and he pulls her into his seat, holding her waist. She curls up in his lap. And they kiss. It could be hours for all Sansa knows. 

Her mind wanders but only far enough to think that she regrets not doing this sooner. It’s clear enough this isn’t something new for either of them, that they have both dreamt of the other for longer than is probably appropriate. But she is only glad that they have found this peace in each other now. She can’t imagine this life without Jon. There are things to repair, things to unpack and grow from. But here in Jon’s arms, she finds her bliss. 

She’s the one to break apart, she thinks Jon would never let her go if she left him in charge. She only pulls back enough to see his face clearly. He looks a bit dazed. 

“I guess that’s my answer then.” Sansa honestly giggles, she feels like a girl from her favourite songs. 

Jon’s tongue darts out and licks his lips. (Sansa watches it a bit too intently). He gives a shameful shake of his head, he can’t believe it either. 

“I didn’t think you felt the same,” Jon admits shyly. 

Sansa rolls her eyes and snuggles deeper into his arms. 

“Well I need a King, figured you’d fit the part.”

Sansa teases him and gives him a sharp elbow. Jon laughs, genuinely, as if nothing has ever hurt him. 

“Your wish is my command then, my Queen.”

Jon’s voice is teasing, the same as hers. But she thinks he might be revelling in the fact that he just said ‘My Queen’ and it wasn’t a lie for the first time. She settles herself there, and she can hear his heartbeat. She lets it steady her. 

She finds herself looking forward to the journey home, to what lays beyond. With Jon here by her side, she suddenly feels giddy, as if they have their whole lives to figure things out. No threats loom on the horizon. 

It’s a feeling she thinks she wouldn’t trade all of her past sufferings for, to love Jon and be loved in return is all she wants. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's funny where we find inspiration. i was listening to music when this unravelled before me and I wrote it in one sitting. i don't have much to say about this one but it's probably the softest piece i've written. as always thanks for reading and drop a comment <3


End file.
